


witchcraft at work

by ponyponynay



Series: Visions [1]
Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Actors, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponyponynay/pseuds/ponyponynay
Summary: The time that’s past was not enough time and too much time all at once for this special witch’s brew, a concoction of frustration, helplessness, resentment, want, need and self-loathing, amongst the 6,000 other heartbreak-inducing ingredients.But it also came with the sickest high Timmy has ever experienced. It was straight out of the Anarchist’s Cookbook.





	witchcraft at work

**Author's Note:**

> please pay attention to the time stamps! the timeline jumps back and forth, just like a 22-year-old's head...

[Thursday 4:23 a.m.]

 

Timmy wonders.

A burning cigarette wedged between his fingers, he turns his gaze to the window to see the impending dawn smudge the New York skyline with a purple tint. The seat beneath him is cold and hard, the polished wood sticking to his bare thighs.

His eyelids feel heavy. Perhaps he should sleep. No, he knows he should, but the inside of his head is too jumbled for that. So instead, using the soft snoring of the naked beast sprawled on his bed as the soundtrack to his dawn, Timmy chooses to wonder about love. 

Love. Timmy releases a bitter snicker that’s somewhere between a sob and a giggle. It’s a condition he finds himself afflicted by, and it worsens everyday, all thanks owed to the beast of a man over there in deep, carefree slumber. 

Timmy is in mourning. Has been. For something that shows only signs of ending, but does not. 

His thoughts spiral down and hit ground zero at the speed of light, and he lets them; he’s in a rather pessimistic mood. And he feels far too young and far too old at the same time. 

Timmy turns his gaze once more, but his brown curls stay completely still. His eyes are alone in shifting to travel across the room, eventually reaching their final destination -- the blob of man unphased by the blueness that has his boy.

Armie. His Armie. But soon-to-be-going-home Armie. And not-sure-when-he’ll-be-back Armie. 

Timmy feels cursed in this moment -- cursed by the residue of Crema and all of its magic that sits quietly in the corner of his mind, and the lingering shadow of the fucking mastermind that is Luca Guadagnino, whose work of art this condition probably is. Only, Timmy’s not sure Luca had calculated in how far and wide his creation would extend. 

Or how broken it would leave Timmy in the aftermath. 

Then again, to describe it as “aftermath” is premature. Timmy thinks about it all like it’s already ended. But the truth is, it hasn’t, perhaps to the detriment of both of them. That thing called love is what puts them both here in Timmy’s cramped New York apartment, exchanging breaths with the walls closing in on themselves. 

It keeps lingering on. 

Love puts words into people’s mouths, knocking them around in all directions with great force. Timmy feels helpless, though blaming love for words said, he knows, is a cop-out. 

Perhaps its worst symptom, though, is that it hurts like it can fucking kill. Sometimes, Timmy feels like he’s choking, but when he looks up to see the master of the hands wrapped around his throat, he finds only himself. 

After hours spent spacing out at window-side, with both the skyline out the window and Armie’s sleeping backside in line of sight, Timmy finally arrives at a conclusion -- the only one that’s plausible in his meager mind. 

Witchcraft. It must be fucking witchcraft. That’s what love must be. And there really was no way Timmy could have braced himself from its formidable impact. 

Still, Timmy can’t figure out to what degree this conclusion is helpful in terms of actually improving the status of things between him and Armie, or at the very least, how feels about the given circumstances. That. That was the question. Could he be satisfied with the sand seeping through his fingers and disappearing into thin air.

That was what had Timmy spiraling down, not just now, but for a year. No, two years. No, wait, was in going on three? 

Fuck me, Timmy thinks. 

The time that’s past was not enough time and too much time all at once for this special witch’s brew, a concoction of frustration, helplessness, resentment, want, need and self-loathing, amongst the 6,000 other heartbreak-inducing ingredients. But it also came with the sickest high Timmy has ever experienced. It was straight out of the Anarchist’s Cookbook. 

The brew’s been cooking, coming to a boil just underneath the surface. From here, you only need pull the trigger to witness the spectacular explosion that follows.

The start to this particular series of unhealthy thoughts had come hours ago, when the city was still lit with sunlight instead of all these ugly, orange streetlights. 

 

 

 

[Wednesday 1:41 p.m.]

 

“I don’t think we’re cool anymore,” Timmy said. 

He was chewing his nails and spitting out the torn bits onto the carpet. Armie had warned earlier, it’s fucking disgusting. But it couldn’t be helped; Timmy was feeling antsy. 

As soon as the soundwaves reach Armie’s eardrums, Armie puts on a face that’s somewhere between irritated and shell shocked, as though he’d been told there’s no gluten free soy sauce at the grocery store or something. In all truth, Armie was mostly confused. His thoughts quietly cycle back to the events of the day, going over its details to see what of those could have triggered such a ridiculous statement from Timmy.

Could it have been… Was Armie hogging the blanket again in the middle of the night? Were there bits of shells left in the eggs he cooked for Tim earlier? Did he shower for too long and use up all the hot water? Or… 

Armie had no fucking clue. 

It really could have seemed totally out of the blue from Armie’s standpoint. And awkward. So fucking awkward that even Timmy himself could feel the awkwardness seeping through his pores.

But it couldn’t be helped. 

The spell of love had taken full effect and all of its symptoms had manifested in the worst way. Oh, the things love made him say — made him feel. Reminiscing his own words from heated moments makes Timmy cringe so hard. Yet, it’s never possible to take what’s spilled back, so there was that.

What was possibly more uncool than all of the uncoolness lingering in the air in the moment was actually how he’d said it. It came across as though Timmy was a middle schooler disowning his after-school buddy for ogling his sister or something. He only realized how stupid he had sounded moments after he’d said it, but in that moment, he’d been too wrapped up in his own angst to notice. 

I don’t think we’re cool anymore. Timmy wants to die at how fucking stupid that sounded. It was unbelievable how stupid it sounds especially considering it took Timmy about six hours to conjure up that fucking sentence. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” Armie had asked, sounding truly puzzled and for some reason, skeptical.  
“I mean us. This. It’s not cool. Fuck,” Timmy replied, the initial bravado disappearing with each additional word.

Timmy looked up to find Armie’s face melting down into sadness, the initial look of confusion gone and only deep sorrow left behind. Then Timmy’s heart sank to the floor. Then it melted through the little gaps in the floor board and sank some more, until it reached the ground outside, where gravity took full control and dragged it all the way down to the core.

But it couldn’t be helped. 

It had to be said, because these words were weeks, possibly months or even years, in the making. 

 

 

 

[A week ago]

 

It was supposed to be obvious. But it wasn’t, and that was the unfortunate fact. 

Increasingly in the past year, Timmy had been wondering why he found himself feeling so upset when it came to anything involving or relating to Armie. Like, literally upset, with stomach churning and head spinning. 

Then he realized, as he sat cross-legged on his sofa with a half-read New Yorker in his lap. It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet.

It really was bad timing, because Armie was coming out to New York to be with him in three days and Timmy wasn’t sure he could come to terms with the things that were troubling him before he arrives. The realization had hit so suddenly.

And Timmy was not prepared to feel so damaged. 

He realized the sinking feeling in his stomach came from wanting to monopolize Armie. 

Whatever it is they were doing, sneaking in few-day visits every once in a blue moon and sexting in the middle of the night, was nowhere near enough. He had wanted it to be enough, and he knew Armie did too. But it wasn’t, and that was that. 

That realization had come across as strange even to Timmy himself, because for over two years since the consummation of their… union, Timmy had successfully convinced himself that he was perfectly content with the reality of no promises or expectations. 

But fuck, he was wrong. Had been wrong. For a while, too.

All this time, even within Timmy himself, there had been a degree of understanding that being in a relationship, or whatever, with a married man unwilling to unmarry himself was bound to get old. 

And Timmy was certain that before it ever got old, the afterglow of Crema would wear out. And eventually, he would grow up enough to be able to cram all of the feelings into his Pandora’s box. 

And eventually, everybody would return to their regularly scheduled programming. 

Only, that never happened, and Timmy was not certain that it was ever going to happen. If anything, the condition had dramatically worsened. And it continues to, forcing Timmy’s hand in wanting more than could be had. 

And as it turns out, facing yourself in that realization is a magnificently difficult task, especially when you thought, or pretended you knew, you wanted far less. It makes you feel like a greedy asshole overstepping the boundaries of permissible, taking, stealing and claiming what isn’t yours to keep.

It struck Timmy hard and threw him into a pool of self-loathing. And the thought of never satiating that want drowned him in it. 

 

 

 

[Wednesday 7:08 a.m.]

 

Timmy hadn’t yet figured out what to do about his realization four days after Armie arrived. It was much easier to give in. 

Besides, rarely did he have an opportunity to spend almost a whole week with Armie. He wanted to capitalize on that, so he did. They chilled, got really fucked up most nights, had insanely good sex, and ate a lot of pizza. It was heaven.

And here, Timmy was dressed in white sheets, eyes blurry from a sex-induced high and arms blindly tapping at the mattress for signs of warmth. Not finding any, he forced himself up to a sitting position, the sheets he was wearing drooping down and scrunching up at the waist. 

His bodily functions turned on one by one. He saw the blinding light first, then smelled the freshly brewed coffee, then heard the low rumbles of Armie’s voice resonating from the bathroom. 

For a brief moment, Timmy sat there appreciating the ring of his lover’s voice against the tile. But that lasted a mere moment, because soon, he realized that ring involved a soft giggle that made apparent who was on the other end of the line. 

See, the bathroom -- it’s the only other room in Timmy’s cramped apartment where one could obtain some level of privacy. It’s where Armie disappeared to three or four times a day for a discreet chat with his fucking wife. 

Tim often wondered what she thought, if she ever did, about why every time she would Facetime with her husband, the backdrop was the ugly, browning tiles inside Timmy’s bathroom. 

Not that there’s much of a view elsewhere in Timmy’s toy castle, but basically anything was better than those fucking tiles, Timmy thought.

And the walls in Timmy’s flat are thin like sheets; the architects of this building seem like they weren’t too concerned about noise canceling. So each time Armie had disappeared into that fucking bathroom, Timmy could hear him — hear her — nonchalantly talk husband and wife business. 

It was as though Armie hadn’t spent the entirety of last night eating Timmy’s ass out until Timmy was a sobbing mess. 

Even then, Timmy was probably only mildly annoyed. He knew the drill. He’d stay dead silent in the bedroom until the call ended. It took about three to seven minutes on average. But there were times when Armie’s wife is in a fierce mood to gossip. Then that could last anywhere between 50 and 111 minutes. God, Timmy hoped this wasn’t one of those. 

And when the call ends, Armie would return to him. Both parties would act as though those minutes have been deleted from the reel, but strangely, Armie would act a bit more affectionate than before the call, as though he’s looking for some kind of atonement. 

But then Armie had to fucking say those words.

“Love you, babe. Call you later,” Timmy heard him say.

It was barely the first time he’s heard him say that to his wife. But it was the first time it triggered something inside him. For some fucking reason, today, it seemed more right, more deserving than the hundreds of times before. 

More deserving. Than him.

 

 

 

[Wednesday 1:42 p.m.]

 

“Are you being serious right now?” Armie asked in response to Timmy saying they “weren’t cool anymore.” Timmy reacted by rolling his eyes as far back as humanly possible. That, he also realized just moments after he’d done it, was pretty childish, even for him. 

But it couldn’t be helped.

Timmy was pissed, and in need of a less honest version of Armie who could tell him he didn’t mean it when he said those words to her, that he needn’t feel guilty or used. 

But reality is often different from the picture hope can conjure up. 

Armie looked like he was about to strangle him — for good reason, too; Tim was being a bit of a brat. But Armie doesn’t know. Timmy was already being strangled without Armie laying a finger on him. 

That was the witchcraft at work.

“Well, do you really?” Timmy backfired, his sentence missing some key bits of information.  
“Do I what?” Armie snapped back, the ridge between his eyebrows deepening.  
“Love her.” 

Timmy could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth as he was saying them. He’d always imagined himself to a better man than that, not this petty child who shouted angry words aimed to stab and hurt. But there he was. This was him, and it couldn’t be helped. 

Armie’s face had softened at that question, not because of relief, but rather, because his facial features were drooping down in despair. It was truly the saddest face Timmy had ever seen put on Armie. 

Then regret hit like a fucking truck. It was too late, of course. Timmy was feeling out of control and clearly under a powerful spell. 

Yet, Timmy continued to scrutinize Armie’s face, looking for more reasons to feel heartbroken. A part of Timmy wanted to peg Armie as the perpetrator, the one responsible for breaking something beautiful. 

Armie sighed loudly, as to hint at having expected something like this to happen eventually. Words didn’t need to be exchanged for that feeling to accurately come across to Timmy. Armie’s lips parted a few times, but he couldn’t immediately make out a sentence. Only after several failed attempts did Armie manage to actually say something. 

And Timmy fucking hated what he had to say.

“I do,” Armie said. That was the honest truth.

“I honestly don’t know how to feel about that,” Timmy replied, his gaze landing sharply upon Armie’s flickering eyelids. In a way, Armie’s answer had made perfect sense. In another, it made Timmy feel like utter shit. In hindsight, Timmy thinks perhaps those two feelings weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Tim, she’s my wife. My family. The mother of my children. You’re…” Timmy waved a hand in Armie’s face before he could finish. 

Armie was reciting the obvious. Timmy didn’t feel like having any of that. Those words only served to justify Armie’s excuses and did nothing to appease Timmy. Timmy wasn’t in the mood to go over the obvious -- he needed to be held, comforted and told sweet things even if they would prove to be lies later. 

Or were those what he needed? He didn’t even fucking know anymore.

Unable to get what he wanted, Timmy had snapped. That was intended more as a defensive maneuver, not an offensive one. But it couldn’t be helped how it came across to Armie. Armie felt shut out. 

“I’d like for you to leave now,” he said to Armie, looking straight into his eyes, his tone more stern than before.  
“Timmy… What the fuck’s going on?”  
“I don’t know. Just leave. Now” 

Timmy was feeling exasperated. That’s what was going on, but he didn’t feel like explaining that either. Armie shouldn’t have to ask. The fact that he was asking made Timmy even more angry. This was Armie playing dumb, perhaps to escape the blame on why this wasn’t working out. 

Wouldn’t we all like for it to be someone else’s fault when shit breaks. 

As Timmy tried to turn away, Armie forcefully grabbed Timmy’s left arm. The force had Timmy springing into Armie’s arms. Timmy managed to quickly pull away once more. But Armie was intent on trapping Timmy in his embrace. The sheer force in Armie’s death grip gave Timmy no room to wiggle out. 

And that had triggered a sudden bout of breathless sobbing for Timmy. 

Boom. The explosion. Without a warning. No high-pitched alarms or ominous countdowns. 

Timmy’s breakdown startled Armie greatly. Fingers shaking, Armie cradled his boy, who suddenly relinquished all control and melted into his arms. There was nothing graceful about the way Timmy was sobbing. 

It was uncontrolled and unvarnished. Again, Timmy was there with his heart so close to the surface. One only needed look down in the water to see it all. The question was, though, whether Armie felt brave enough to do that.

“I don’t want you to go,” Timmy heart poured, with ugly sobs rearing their heads in between words. “But you always do,” he added. 

Rarely did Timmy ever ask for more. He made a habit of holding back, as to feign a sense of control over his feelings for Armie. This was a new behavior for Timmy in the grand scheme of his life. Timmy had never been shy about asking for what he wants and getting it. 

But that wasn’t possible all the time, especially not with Armie and his situation. And there was a part of Armie that knew this, but it served them both well to look the other way. 

Armie’s huge hand stroked the back of Timmy’s head, which bobbled up and down as a consequence to his sobs. 

“Hey, hey… Come here. I’m here now. Let’s make the most of it,” Armie said softly. That tone triggered harsher sobbing from Timmy.

“I never have you… That makes me fucking angry,” Timmy managed to say in between ugly sobs and a mixture of saliva and tears pooling up in his mouth.  
“You do have me. You have me right here,” Armie said, as though he’s comforting a child. His tone sounded almost disingenuous.  
“I don’t… Fuck…!” Timmy spat.

“I love you,” Armie said quietly and reassuringly. Timmy hated that this time, Armie’s words sounded totally genuine. 

Timmy had realized then how little control he had over himself. He was not the driver of this wheel that kept on rolling forward. 

Whoever actually was behind the wheel was evidently extremely diligent, because the engine was in full throttle and Timmy found himself tumbling down a rocky road, feeling like his head was bleeding. He wanted desperately for it to stop, but it never did.

His head buried in Armie’s chest, Timmy sighed loudly and replied, “I love you, too. Fuck! It’s such a fucking problem.”  
“Don’t say things like that, please. It’s not a fucking problem that we love each other,” Armie said, rather irritated. Timmy was certain then that Armie must be clueless to his pain. 

“But it is, Armie. You don’t even fucking know…”  
“I do, babe. Fuck.” 

And just like that, Timmy found himself persuaded, at least for the time being. It was enough to give Armie a pass this time around and let him slide in between Timmy’s parted knees. Armie’s huge hands covering the small of his back, his stubbles against Timmy’s cheeks, chest hair rubbing at his nipples.

In that moment, Timmy had realized his driver is Armie. Armie, with his softness and hardness all at once, controls the engine inside of Timmy, pushing the buttons that send Timmy flying.

Timmy briefly recalled a time when this all seemed like a fleeting romance, carefully and meticulously orchestrated by the master architect Luca Guadagnino for the greater good of art.

Two beautiful people were picked up from opposite ends of the country and dropped off into a scenery elsewhere made for romance. Given the time and luxury to explore each other, they did just that. And all made perfect sense then. 

Those were the simpler days, using the high induced by a dose of something fierce combined with the sweet scent of Crema as an excuse to intertwine their limbs and coexist in a dream. 

But the colors have shifted so far, so much since. 

Yet, here Timmy was again, giving up on being a good advocate of his own hurt and instead giving into Armie’s hands and will. 

“I love you, you little shithead,” Armie whispered as he slowly fucked into him. “I need you to believe that.” 

Sprawled onto the sheets with both of his ankles in Armie’s hands above his head, Timmy found himself nodding. Damn those words, wrapped in Armie’s baritone, tugging at the invisible ropes tied around Timmy’s fragile frame. 

For now, Timmy allowed himself to be possessed by an illusion that this road led somewhere. And that somehow, this love was greater than the one muttered to someone else. 

Armie never promised such a thing, but Timmy had to believe. Otherwise, it hurt too fucking much. 

Never mind that more than usual, he was having a hard time keeping up that belief. The resentment for how easily and expertly Armie controlled Timmy had been growing and raising its ugly head onto the surface with increasing frequency. 

Nothing about the dynamic was fair, and Timmy knew that, but he was even too powerless to drive his own thought into any useful action. 

 

 

 

[Thursday 4:24 a.m.]

 

Sometimes, Timmy felt strong enough to resist. Sitting across from the bed on a wooden stool with one knee cradled in his arm with the city under him, Timmy felt that strength.

It’s what made him lift Armie’s massive arm draped over his body and slip out of bed in the middle of the night, hopping his gaze from outside the window to the broad backside rising up and down with each breath. A sex-induced coma had Armie snoring like there’s no tomorrow. 

In his sleep, the beast exercised considerably less power and Timmy could return to rare moments of clarity. So here he was basking in that clarity, periodically catching a glimpse of his own reflections in the window.

Both he and Armie, and the now grayish blue sky are all coexisting in the same frame, as though they all belonged. But Timmy knows. It’s an illusion, like those silly photos of tourists holding up the leaning tower of Pisa with their fingers. It’s a fairly convincing one, but still, everyone knows it’s not real. 

It can’t be real. 

With the effects of the witchcraft having calmed, Timmy faces the saner, smarter version of himself looking to regain control over the wheel.

And that person tells him, this isn’t enough.


End file.
